


we were soldiers, once

by peradi



Series: once there was [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Kissing, Lesbian Power Couple, fn-2187 was a stormtrooper, governing is far harder than winning, leia hates being a politician
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 15:48:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6664705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winning is easy; governing is hard. </p><p>They have a chance: a General, and a soldier like Phasma. They've just got to work at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we were soldiers, once

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rain_sleet_snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/gifts).



> for my dear friend on the happy occasion of her birth.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @swearydroid

The Second Galactic Republic sets her feet down on Coruscant and says: yes, here is where I shall bloom. And bloom she does, only she’s not the prettiest of trees: her flowers hang in scrolls of paperwork, her bark is etched with the minutes of meetings, the wind rustles through her leaves and sings _we shall decide by committee._

To extend a metaphor: Leia Organa does not relax in the dappled shade of said tree. She runs about its roots, shouting at it in the hope of getting it to bloom faster and also to _pay its fucking taxes come on!_

Winning is easy.

Governing is an absolute _embuggerence_.

 

\--

 

Observe Senator Malachite, representing the people of Naboo.

He is dressed in gold and glitter, shining robes climbing up to a great flared collar that opens at his nape like a sunburst, long sleeves that cascade over his slim, manicured hands. Red lip-paint climbs from his chin to his mouth, tinted here and there with dabs of gold.

He strides through the corridors of the Senate like he was born to walk them. He was: the Malachite family has provided politicians for generations.

He says, “Naboo opposes a draft, of course. We are not savages. We do not have a population swollen by troopers -- let Persephone provide soldiers; it is what they are good for, anyway.”

Reyma Kiltjael springs to her feet. “We are soldiers -- some of us -- and some of us are politicians, and some are artists and guess what? Not one of us has ever tried to shirk their responsibility to the Republic. We give what we must, we fight when we are ordered to -- we guard what we built! You just want to move money around!”

“You will ask permission before you speak -- I was not _done_ \--”

“Have you submitted your expenses claim lately? No? Oh, look I’ve got a copy,” and with this Reyma reaches into her robes, brandishes a holopad. “Ten thousand credits on hair pomade! Waste of fucking money, if you ask me -- you still look like a bantha’s left --”

“Order. _Order_.” Leia bangs her fist on her desk: the sound is amplified, carried, sounding and ringing; and silence descends.

(It’s awful. She wants to side with Reyma, add her voice, scream _pay your taxes you are not better than them you are_ **_not_ ** \-- but she can’t, she can’t, they have a second shot at a Republic and this time they are going to do it _right_ and that means wading into the fray again, being a politician _again_ and she hates it, hates it, hates it --)

 

\--

 

You must do what you hate for the sake of peace: you must, you must.

“The village burned because of me,” says Phasma, and she’s talking about every village, every civilian, every blaster-bolt and every child stolen, and redemption is a long and rocky road and the start of it may be blood but you cannot have that blood as the paving because otherwise what’s the point? You can’t build a new future on the blood and bones of the old, you just can’t, and so Phasma lives but Captain Phasma dies.

Balance. That’s the key. Ironic, really, that Luke is the one obsessed with balance -- the Force, the legacy, the stories -- but it’s Leia who has to practice it, one faction against another, civilians and troopers alike.

(There are entire quadrants of the galaxy who tell horror stories that begin: _they came from the night, white and faceless_ ; or else _they take the children and leave ash_ ; or else _they are unstoppable warriors with no names and no soul_ ; and these are the quadrants she must negotiate with.)

(They call her _she-wolf_ , they call her _war-drinker,_ they call her _blood-hungry sith-spawn_ but mostly they call her _General_ and that means something, she thinks.)

Anway. Balance. That’s the key -- and so Phasma loses rank, loses everything, tumbles down until all she has is the armour on her back and memories of ash and battle.

“Do you understand,” says Leia, “that you can never lead an army, not again, not ever,” and this is the price of peace, of victory, and Phasma nods.

“But,” continues Leia, Leia _she-wolf_ , Leia _mother-to-many,_ Leia who will do what she must, Leia child of a politician who gave everything from her Republic --

(Leia’s not in love with the Republic; sometimes she outright hates it. But for the sake of peace, for the sake of her children, she will let herself burn --)

(Will she? Should she?)

“ _But_ ,” says Leia, wife of a smuggler and a scoundrel in her own right, thinking of her mother, of Padme who turned to ash trying to do what she thought was right, “there’s a way around it.”

 

\--

 

Here is the official title: Head of Security.

To understand what it means, look at Phasma’s quarters.

Once, there was a bed, desk, chair, refresher block -- all the things a soldier needs and no more.

Now she has a stand for her helmet. It is gold and shiny.

(Finn gave her it. He is a little too keen on the care of his clothes; she feels that it is unbecoming for a soldier to fuss so much over their appearance. Then again, Finn is no longer a soldier. He is a politician. There is a difference, and that seems to be this: politicians, like soldiers, must fight in both underhand and brutal ways; but politicians must look good while doing it.)

Then there’s the holopad. Soldiers need them for communication. Phasma now must be able to follow popular culture -- there is a strange trend among the young to refer to the things they like as _trash_ \-- she almost gutted a young delegate for referring to himself as _Leia Organa’s trash_. Apparently, this is a compliment.

(It’s Leia who gives her the holopad, after that incident; Phasma had felt a strange, warm glow from her cheekbones to her stomach and no idea _why._ )

More than that: she must be able to communicate with strange species, things that the First Order would have wiped clean out of the galaxy; she must speak their language, know their customs, know how to avoid insult and negotiate. The holopad is jammed pack with all the language-info she can find. It serves as a translator when her own not inconsiderable skills fail her.

(Early on in the days of the New Senate, a delegation from Jerentah had pitched up, a species that communicated only by bioluminescence. Phasma had held the holopad against her armour to create a serene blue glow of welcome, then flashed red-red-silver in rapid succession to indicate that this was a place of negotiation, not warfare. She then clattered her fingers against her forearm, a pattering like rain, to communicate that she wishes them a pleasant stay: the direct translation is something like _may rain ever-fall, may you be ever-welcome_.

Leia had said: _how did you know --_

And Phasma, confused, had said: _I am a soldier: you must know those around you, their ways and customs. Now Ma’am, please avoid wearing purple around them -- they see it as a threat…)_

 

\--

 

Phasma’s earliest memory is of her helmet, heavy and secure on her shoulders, sealed tight to prevent contaminants from entering. The rasp of her breath loud in her ears. The narrowed view of the world, like blinkers on a beast of burden. Her comrades in the same helmets. Expressions were hedonism. You did not take off your helmet unless you were told to.

( _Who gave you permission FN-2187 -- )_

(What Phasma did not say: I once saw a proud young trooper shot in the face by her commander because she had her helmet off at the wrong time. _See why we ask you to wear them?_ the commander said, as her body crumpled, cooked flesh inside white beetle-plate. _See why?_ Do you understand, now, FN-2187? Why I say these things? Why I protect you? I am harsh; there are others who would be harsher --)

Look: the upshot of this is that she can’t control her expressions. She’s never needed to. She has absolute mastery over her body, but her face is a wildthing, lips curling, eyes sparking, teeth showing: how does one _prevent_ this?

A particular irksome example: a meeting, not three months ago, called in the middle of an emergency over pirates raiding Rotta the Hutt’s tradeships. Pitching up to Organa’s quarters in the early murk of morning, Organa herself in her nightwear, translucent fabric and hair loose and Phasma _reeled_. There was a hot spot behind her ribs, hard and throbbing, like a blaster-shot but without the pain; and the heat spread up her spine, clever little fingers under her armour, reached her cheeks where it blossomed into warm red and this all occurred in the space of five heartbeats. She jammed her helmet on. Poe had shot her a knowing, sly look and she tried to communicate her desire to tear his tongue out via the positioning of her left arm.

Maybe it had worked. That boy was incorrigible, afraid of nothing.

(Phasma will never admit to liking him, not even under the most refined of tortures.)

Another example: three days ago, Leia stumbling into Phasma’s quarters after a late-night debate. It wasn’t the first time; often they stay up drinking and talking, as is proper and correct for a Head of Security and a politician (possibly. To be honest, Phasma has no idea what is proper and correct in these circumstances; her working definition is ‘whatever Leia says is proper and correct’.)

(Phasma has had some interesting dreams about Leia saying _this is fine this is what Heads-of-Security do it really is --_ dreams she tries very hard not to dwell on around the General because Force sensitivity is just _awful_ \--)

 _Anyway_ : Leia Organa in her quarters, unexpectedly, Phasma in the shower; Phasma ended up greeting Leia with a towel slung around her waist and her helmet on.

“Drink?” said Leia. In the dictionary, next to the word ‘unflappable’, there is a picture of General Organa, one eyebrow lifted.

“Yes,” says Phasma, only a little stilted. “Please. Thank you.”

 

\--

 

“Take _pity_ on her,” says Poe.

“What _ever_ could you mean,” says Leia, with blank eyes and a perfectly schooled expression.

(There's a betting pool, she knows. She refuses to check the odds.)

 

\--

 

“I know what you’re doing,” says Luke. “Or, rather, what you’re trying _not_ to do.”

“I’m not impressed by your mind-tricks, baby brother,” says Leia absently. Luke smiles. It’s a bone-deep, easy smile, the sort of smile that comes from being at _peace_.

“You’re _Leia Organa_ . You’re the mother of the Revolution, you’re her boss, her saviour -- she adores you. She’d follow you into hell and she’s so _young_ and you don’t want to take advantage of that.” A pause. Then, “You fancy her rotten don’t you?”

“She’s beautiful and strong and clever and _my Force_ she could benchpress me...she’s ferocious. She’s terrifying. And do you know what? Do you know what the worst thing is? She’s never left me. Ever. And she never will, she never would. I don’t read thoughts like you: I just get _feelings_. And what I get from her is this...stability. This bone-deep certainty, like a rock in the ocean, like all around is the tumult of stars and sand and there’s her, standing tall, standing proud, never ever falling -- “

“The still point of the turning world.”

“Are you quoting something?”

“Jedi Master -- “

“Oh, don’t quote old Jedi mumbo-jumbo at me.”

“She’d do anything for you -- “

“And that is the _problem_.”

“I know. So what -- you just wait until she gets sexually frustrated enough to jump you?”

“That’s the plan.” Leia takes a sip of her caf and sighs. “I’ve got to wait for it.”

“Leia Organa, practicing patience. How times have changed.”

 

\--

 

“Can we just shoot him?” Leia muses over caf, three days later.

Phasma’s helmet quirks on one side. She looks like a great, star-bright bird. “I would be glad to ma’am,” she says.

“Probably best not to,” Leia says. “I mean…” she gestures towards the data-pad, “how am I going to get him to condense this if he’s dead?”

“Pull it out of his skull ma’am,” says Phasma. Leia snorts. Phasma continues: “Make unnecessary verbosity punishable by summary vivisection,” and she says each word like she’s presenting a treasure to the sun, lining them up, rolling the syllables over. Leia’s snort becomes a coughing laugh, and she turns back to the report.

“Apparently, the Naboo want more funding and less taxation.”

Phasma makes a low, hard sound of disgust. Leia lifts an eyebrow.

Once, she was a small angry princess who shouted and stamped at the world. Now, she’s learned the value of a well-placed eyebrow. It’s rather amusing watching grown men wilt at the sight.

Phasma, however, is made of sterner stuff. She says, “Permission to speak plainly?”

“Always.”

“They don’t fight. They offer us no troops, no miners -- nothing but quarrelsome delegates keening for our hard-earned credits,” and Leia has not seen Phasma’s face in nigh on a year but she knows exactly what expression is being pulled now: the hard set of the chin, the full lower lip nudged out in the slightest possible pout.

“They contribute nothing,” Phasma says, “and want everything.”

“On the contrary: they pay their taxes -- mostly --  and I hear that they have the best bankers in the quadrant -- “

“They _move money around_ ,” sneers Phasma. “They’re not soldiers; they are arguing against a draft. They are cowards.”

“They have a different way of doing things,” says Leia, automatically. She remembers this exact conversation --

( _father, why must we humour them? They contribute nothing! They bask in their sun and move around money and bitch about paying their way -- )_

_(Language Leia! -- )_

_(But --)_

_(It is the way of things. You are a diplomat -- )_

\-- a very long time ago, before Phasma was even born. She says, “The galaxy needs all sorts: the bankers and the soldiers and the politicians -- “

“I have nothing against _some_ politicians,” says Phasma, “Reyma Kiltjael is a model of efficiency; Bren Archer is beloved, though Force only knows why, that boy is a snake. Finn! Finn is remarkable. But others…”

“Others,” says Leia. “Yes.”

Silence.

Then, “Things were easier when we were soldiers.”

Leia swallows, hard. “Yes,” she says, “yes, they were.”

 

\--

 

“You’d hate her Han. She’s all duty and honour. She does as she is ordered. She’s the bravest woman I know. You’d love her. She’s so proud of her body, so fierce about it, benchpressing and deadlifts and she’s got these _muscles_ . She’s so _strong_. She carries herself like if the galaxy won’t get into order she’ll stamp it into shape.”

A pause. She sits with her hands on her knees, peering up out of the window at the sky, the white stars, the great moon.

She’s seen so many ghosts, but she’s never seen his. She likes to imagine that he’s got better things to do than watch the New Republic stumble to its feet. _I’m off seeing the stars, princess, I’m off to chase the wind_.

_I’ll come home when it’s ready, I’ll come back home for you --_

Leia doesn’t say _would you mind if;_ she doesn’t say _can I?_ \-- she is Leia Organa, and she knows Han Solo down to the sinews of his heart. She says, “I’m not one to wait, not normally, but I’ll wait for her.”

 

\--

 

One night. Four in the morning. Leia leaves her office to find Phasma still out there, standing guard, as always.

“It’s easy to win, isn’t it? What comes after, that’s the hard part. Sometimes I wish that I could just have all of them on a battlefield. It’s…honest,” says the General and Phasma nods.

And Leia continues, “Han had this habit of running off. It was part of why I loved him, but damn me if it didn’t make things hard.”

And Phasma says, stiffly, “Ma’am, I am a soldier. I will not abandon my post.”

Leia smiles. “I know,” she says.

She sinks to her knees. Phasma’s breath hitches. Leia catches the trooper’s gauntleted hand, pulls it to her mouth, kisses each one of her cold metal knuckles. Keeps her head bowed. _Humble_ : a word that no one would have ever applied to Leia until now, until right this moment.

There’s a great and yawning ache in her stomach, a hunger, a desperation -- it feels like the Force itself is opening up within her, trying to devour. _Take and take and take and take_ and that was Anakin Skywalker’s legacy, that brand of durasteel love, restrictive and bitter, all-consuming fire.

_You are better than your father, better than them --_

_MOTHER,_ Leia snaps internally, to the shadowy figure beginning to materialise. _Not the_ **_time_ ** _to offer advice. Kindly bugger off._

 _Such cheek --_ but the ghost dissipates.

Leia stays kneeling. Heavy metal hand in hers. Eyes tipped up. Phasma’s helmet shining. She hungers to see the other woman’s face, every contour and slant, but she doesn’t ask.

Instead she says, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

A hiss. A click. Phasma pulls off her helmet. Two flags of scarlet glow on her high cheekbones. She wets her lips several times before speaking. “It is -- it is an honour.”

Leia stays on her knees, smiles up.

Phasma turns her gauntlet over, so that both of Leia’s small hands rest in her palm. She lifts her to her feet. Leia goes readily, tense and electric with anticipation.

Phasma holds her helmet in one hand, Leia’s fingers in the other. “You...you are a good soldier. You always will be. You still are.”

“You too.”

Leia leans closer. Phasma’s breath flutters in her hair. It smells of mint. She remembers long summer days, Alderaan’s gentle breezes, trapped inside watching the wind chase white clouds over the sun, stuck with her holopads and her duty.

Phasma moves one hand to the small of Leia’s back. The movement is so very slow: as a tectonic plate, creeping over the slant of Leia’s hipbone, palm pressing up against the base of her spine. It takes forty eight heartbeats -- Leia counts -- for Phasma to settle her hand there properly. Honeyed, aching slowness. The trip of her heart. The smell of antiseptic soap -- bitter and astringent -- and of armour polish and Leia’s heart is in her mouth, thick and heavy, but she’s not choking on it. She can’t remember when she last breathed so clearly.

“May I --” says Phasma. Leia cranes her neck.

“Of course.”

And Phasma touches her face.

That’s it.

The softest, most reverent touch and oh _come on_ \-- Leia almost _weeps_ with frustration. But she can wait, she can wait --

Phasma scoops her up off the ground and kisses her _properly_ then, teeth and tongue clattering, and Leia’s knees may be old and creaky but she can still force them around Phasma’s waist and --

Just as quickly as the kiss started, it stops. Phasma drops her. Leia lands light and elegant on her feet and grins.

“I think I’m a little bit in love with you,” she says.

And shaky, smiling, bending almost double to touch foreheads, Phasma says, “I know.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
